


Holding On

by TheWhiteLily



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John Watson, But not at all angsty, Gen, John Watson Being a Hero, references to suicidal thoughts, sweariness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: John's back on the ground, looking up.  Well.  Not this time.





	Holding On

**Author's Note:**

> For fan_flashworks "Toes"
> 
> Also, my hundredth work on the archive! Wow!

“Now why did I think this was a good idea?” John muttered to himself as he edged his way around the corner.  
  
He paused on the ridge for a minute, resting for the next leg—not that it was easy holding on there, but it was substantially less difficult than it was about to be—before he pressed on.  
  
Left foot. Right hand. Left hand. Right foot.  
  
He was nearly a third of the way along the wall before the boy ahead of him noticed his presence.  
  
“Oi!"  
  
“Hi,” returned John shortly, giving the dark-haired teenager a brief, harassed glance.  He turned his face immediately back towards the blank wall; kept his focus on sensing the grip under his fingertips and setting each toe-hold as far onto the ledge as he could.  Left foot.  Right hand.  
  
“I told you all to stay away from me!”  
  
John ignored him.  Left hand.  Right foot.  
  
“Back off!” repeated the boy, although he didn’t sound certain. “You go right back where you came from!”  
  
“Yeah, no,” huffed John.  
  
He edged out his left foot out as far as he could and then brought his right hand in closer his left. Stretched out his left hand until it was aligned above the left foot, then carefully transferred his weight. Barely skimmed the toe of his right shoe along the inch-wide ledge until it was a shoulder width away from the left. Transferred his weight evenly between the two feet, and held on for a moment in the relatively stable position.  
  
After a moment, John’s mind caught up with what the boy had been saying while he was occupied.   
  
“You going to tell me about everything I got to live for?” he was demanding. “I said I wanted to be alone! Why can’t anyone _ever_ listen?”  
  
“I’ve come this far,” said John, breathing as evenly as he could, as he began to edge his left foot out towards the beckoning window-ledge and the moody teenager who was, at this stage, almost incidental. “Don’t think I, ha.”  
  
He paused, running his fingertips along a chipped section of the invisible ledge above him to find the safest place to set them, then easing his weight onto the left foot.  
  
“Don’t think I,” he tried again. “Could actually make it back.” He brought the right foot back underneath him again and clung to the near-sheer wall, the dull roar of the voices on the street below for a moment piercing the fog of adrenaline. “Only way out is on.”  
  
Which was almost a lie. He _could_ make it back. Probably. He was fairly sure.  
  
God, his fingers were killing him at this point. And his _shoulder_. It was a long time since he’d been an academy cadet. He was a fair bit heavier these days, and in much poorer shape. Not to mention the bullet, which was not even remotely psychosomatic.  
  
Left foot.  
  
But it had only taken one look at the boy up on the window-ledge—tall and dark-haired, his tear-streaked face an impossibly young white smear from four stories below—and something inside him had snapped.  
  
Right hand.  
  
Closer up, he didn’t really look anything like Sherlock. Not that that mattered.  
  
Left hand.  
  
“Well, you can bugger off!” said the boy crossly. “I don’t want help, I didn’t want to be noticed here, and for all I care you can—”  
  
Right fo—  
  
“Shi—” gasped John, fingertips of both hands burning at the pressure, even though he’d regained his precarious foothold on reflex before his mind had even bothered notifying him of the gut-wrenching moment where the toe of his shoe had slipped.    
  
He hugged the wall, cheek flat against it, panting and eyes closed.  On the street below, he could hear the voices again, their tones loud and strident.  
  
“Shiiiit, dude!” the teenager was yelling in panic. “What are you even _doing_  up here?!”  
  
“Well,” panted John, and opened his eyes to meet the boy’s. “I could ask you the same question.”  
  
The boy looked down at where his feet dangled over the edge of the windowsill as though the four story drop had taken on a new and significantly more visceral perspective.  
  
Carefully, John began to edge his left foot out again along the ledge towards the boy, then pulled his right hand in towards his body. Left hand. Right foot.  
  
“You _crazy motherfucker_ ,” breathed the boy. “What do you care? You don’t know shit about me!”  
  
“Friend of mine,” explained John. Right hand, left foot. “Took a dive off a building. Just like this one.” Left hand, right foot. “He never thought about what it would, uh."  Right hand, left foot.  "Do to the rest of us. Thought you might like to.”  
  
“Yeah, well I haven’t got _no one_ who cares if I lived or died!”  
  
“Sure about that?” asked John. Left hand, right foot. Getting there. Closer, closer. Right hand, left foot. “No parents? Siblings? Girlfriends? Friends? Ex-friends? Can’t think of anyone who might be a ‘little bit upset’?” He glanced at the boy’s face and then focused for a moment on his breathing. His left hand. His right foot. “You don’t know _anything_ about it.”  
  
“Hey, I ain’t him!” protested the boy.  
  
“No, you’re not,” said John. Right hand. “But I bet there’s _some_ crazy motherfucker.” Left foot. “Who’s life you make better just by.” Left hand. Nearly there: his fingers were brushing the corner of the window-frame, but he had to be patient. Rushing the last bit would only get him killed. “Just by being alive.” Right foot. “Someone you dying would make into the kind of.” Right hand. “Crazy motherfucker who’d climb. Round the side of a building to.”  
  
Left foot, onto the sill. Left arm, wrapping around the blessedly open window to brace against the inside of the frame. Right hand, joining it, and then the right foot. He was safe.    
  
He stood there for a moment, just feeling the vertigo catch up with him.  
  
“You’re, like, _literally_ _insane_ , man!” said the boy, looking up at him in half-sullen disbelief. He was even younger than John had realised. Or perhaps John was just older than he’d realised.    
  
At this stage, it was likely John could talk him inside.  Likely, but by no means certain.  
  
John spread both hands on the inside of the lintel, braced his right foot securely on the sill, and swung.  
  
“Jesus  _fuck_ , man! I was gonna come in!” whined the boy, curled in a ball on the carpet and clutching his chest as John let go of the window frame and slithered down to join him. “You had me at ‘crazy motherfucker’, you _crazy motherfucker_! You didn’t have to _kick_ me!”  
  
“Yeah, well. That was for the memories,” said John, and winced as he rolled his shoulder in its socket. Hopefully the paramedics could spare him some ice, and some anti-inflammatories, or he wasn’t going to be able to move at all tomorrow. He crouched down beside the boy and looked him over properly. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Anthony,” he said sulkily. “And who are you? You look like someone’s dad, but you kick like a _bastard_. What are you, SAS?”  
  
“John,” returned John. “And no. I was Army, years ago, but now I’m just a concerned passer-by.”    
  
Anthony stared at him.  
  
“It _does_ get better,” John told him. “I’ve put a gun to my own head before, more than once.  But you hold on, and it gets better.  I promise.  Every time I thought I couldn’t go on, I did.  And if I hadn’t, I’d never have reached the very best things in my life.”  
  
Anthony blinked and dropped his eyes, obviously believing him.  
  
John judged it safe enough to cross to the room’s door and unlock it, letting in a couple of paramedics and a wide-eyed policewoman, who crossed to stand between Anthony and the window.  
  
The boy stayed sat on the floor as the paramedics joined him, shaking his head at the first question.   
  
John headed for the door to let himself out.  
  
“Uh... John?” called Anthony, just before he reached it.  "I’m sorry about your friend."  
  
John turned in the doorway and looked at him.  
  
“I mean,” he said, flushing. “Just. Yeah. Sorry. That sucks, man.”  
  
“Thank you.” John smiled a little bitterly. “Just make sure _you_ don’t do it to anyone, all right? It fucks people up.  More than you can imagine.”  
  
“Yeah,” said the boy, a little shamefaced. “Yeah, I’ll. I'll try.”  
  
“Get some help,” said John, a little more kindly. “Psychologists aren’t anything to be afraid of.  I should know.”  
  
Which wasn’t strictly true, at least in John’s experience, but that was probably more due to the Sherlock factor than anything Anthony was likely to experience.  
  
“All right,” said Anthony. “Um. Thanks.”  
  
John nodded, waved off the paramedic who was trying to attract his attention, and slipped out.

* * *

  
Sherlock had already obtained—by what method, John didn’t feel up to asking—an instant ice pack and single dose sachet containing a couple of ibuprofen by the time John made his way past the shadow of the last ambulance to where he’d left him.  He was sitting on a bench, looking up at the window where the boy had been seated.  
  
“I rang Rosie’s daycare,” he said without meeting John's eyes. “To let them know you’d be late.”  
  
“Mmm,” said John, then looked at his watch and sighed. The amount they charged for overtime was unreal. He had to wonder if it’d be cheaper in the end just to hire a nanny, who might be more willing to keep odd hours.  
  
He pocketed the Brufen until he could find something to eat and cracked the ice pack, slapping it between his palms a few times to distribute the crystals.  He started walking back towards the corner of the main road as he tucked it into place around his shoulder, underneath his coat.  
  
“Get us a cab?” he called over his shoulder. “Unless one of the coppers wants to give us blues and twos all the way there?  We might just make it if they do.”  
  
“Ha,” huffed Sherlock, abruptly beside him in three long strides.  “I think most of them think you might need them on your way to the closed ward.”  
  
John snorted. “I might just agree with them.”  
  
Sherlock stepped past him to the kerb and raised one arm at a group of cars that hadn’t seemed to include a taxi until the very moment it pulled over in front of them.  
  
He opened the door and gave the cabbie her directions as John slid in after him.  They sat for a minute in silence before Sherlock spoke again.  
  
“I _am_ sorry.”  He gave John a sideways glance that hinted of remembered grief and fear.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, water under the bridge at this point,” said John, but returned Sherlock a real smile. “It’s all right, I was a crazy motherfucker long before I met you.”  
  
Sherlock smirked back.  
  
“Yes, I could see that,” he said, and then turned his gaze out the window. “It’s how I knew you’d want me for a flatmate.”


End file.
